


Follow the lines

by Siera_Writes



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Massaging, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5041690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He turns to Trott, tries to keep his tone as casual as he can. "Mate, you alright?"</p><p>"Pulled something in my neck." Ross had thought as much. But he looks so bothered by it, and it twinges at Ross' already stretched-thin resolve.</p><p>So before he can even think it through, recognise the words and forcibly close his mouth, they leak out. "Do you... well... I mean... I could give you a massage?"</p><p>Shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow the lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I should be sleeping, but honestly I just want to write and sleep seems to be avoiding me anyway. Some of you may recognise the first part of this. It was written as a prompt request for Leon, and a couple of people wantef a full thing, so hopefully this is just a nice bit of fluff, you know.

Their room in the office is quiet, holds the strange peace that comes with being in a quiet room with nothing happening outside. It's late... early, really, if you were to be pedantic, and Ross' eyes are at the point of gritty burning. He's blinking frequently, eyes occasionally shuttering closed before he gets a grip on himself. They're going to have to leave soon, lock up, grab a few hours sleep, unless they just resort to the sofa.

At the rate they're going, that's probably going to be what they do. Ross can suffer through a barrage of Smith's innuendos. 

From the booth to his right, he hears soft mouse clicks, the occasional clack of keys - strangely soothing in a hypnotic thrum - and every so often it's punctuated with a quietly huffed sigh.

These two projects will be the death of them.

There's a curse from Trott's booth, sharper than if it were just about the editing. Ross leans back, thankful to have something other than a screen to focus on. His vision was starting to swim, colours fading into one another.

Trott's slumped in his seat, and really, really, he needs to improve his posture. His head's bowed, left elbow braced against the desk as his hand works the side of his neck at the juncture of his shoulder, a grimace on his face. From here, Ross can see the lines of slight musculature through the man's polo-shirt, the curve of his spine. He finds his tired mind appreciating it, his usual willed self-reticence crumbling. 

God, now is not a good time for his crush to come through. For one, the man's in pain. Two, they're alone and it's weird and what happens if they end up staying too late to leave the office and the sofa's most feasible? Does he act chivalrous, give up the sofa (Trott would fucking hate that too) or do they share it (and Ross will agonise over it; what if he does something, say something, asleep, with inhibitions lowered, and what will the other man think of the offer, will he think it's weird?) and shit, he doesn't know what to do.

"Fuck." Trott hisses it, vehemence surprising, and lunges backwards in his chair, on the verge of being precariously balanced, and with his head tipped back, neck bared. Jaw sharp and shadowed by a glorious combination of stubble and bone structure. Oh dear. Ross cringes at himself, physically turning away back to his project. He should save it. It's going no further, he can tell.

He turns to Trott, tries to keep his tone as casual as he can. "Mate, you alright?"

"Pulled something in my neck." Ross had thought as much. But he looks so bothered by it, and it twinges at Ross' already stretched-thin resolve.

So before he can even think it through, recognise the words and forcibly close his mouth, they leak out. "Do you... well... I mean... I could give you a massage?"

Shit.

There's a pause for a heartbeat, maybe two, before Trott gingerly inclines his face towards Ross from where he leans back, the curved sweep of his tricep, from his elbow to the tight cuff of his somewhat garish polo-shirt, partially blocking Ross' view of the brunet's expression. Deep eyes pin Ross as the man has an internal debate.

When the other man does speak, it's through clenched teeth, lips curled back to reveal teeth held in a grimace. Trott's voice is lower than normal, even; rough and with no attempt to modulate it to be without the glottal nature. "Any other time, and I'd probably say no. But I'm so fucking tired and I'll be an utter bastard when we record if I've got this to deal with." 

Ross remembers his voice being like this from their Uni days, when they were dead on their feet and still working at four. Like now. Ross shivers, zips his hoodie up further as though to pass off the reasoning to the chill in the air, and not his burgeoning feelings, the guilty weight of unrequited attraction.

And it does feel like guilt - every little stare he's ever managed to garner in any past moment of bravery, he always ends up beating himself up for. As though he's taking advantage just by looking at the other man. Maybe he is. He's never been given any sign the other man might reciprocate, either. At least, he doesn't think he has. 

Hang on. Trott just agreed, didn't he. That's why he's looking back at Ross expectantly, tendons in his neck in high relief as shadow cast by his jaw play over the pale skin there. Ross fumbles to a stand, gestures for Trott to follow him to the sofa. The taller man hovers anxiously as Trott pushes himself from the desk chair with a hiss, his neck jostled by his movement. Ross can see a scowl building on Trott's face, creasing between his arched brows.

They make it to the sofa and they sit down. "Okay?" There's just an edge of belligerence to the shorter man's voice, but it's perfectly understandable given the pain and the lack of sleep they've both had the last few days. The halogen strips in the ceiling make Trott look slightly washed-out, the almost bruise-like hue beneath each eye more prominent due to contrast.

Ross meekly flaps a hand in lieu of telling the man to swivel as best he can on the sofa, and he acquiesces, bringing his legs up to cross them, before turning and cursing slightly as his arm movement again pulls at his neck. His hand is back to his neck before Ross can reach in. Ross scoots as close as he dares to the man, facing the reverse of the man. He takes in the unusual dual-tone of the brunet's hair in the harsh light - it's like there's a blondish shade laid over the darker brown - and skims his vision down the man's back.

With the way Trott's sat - one arm reaching up - Ross can't quite tell how the ache's affecting the way the man sits. He ekes a tiny fraction further forward, until his knees just about pass Trott's hips. It the other man notices the closeness, he doesn't say anything. Maybe he's too caught up in the pain to notice Ross.

"Hey, mate?" Ross speaks as reassuringly as he can, reaches up with hands he knows are chilled from being used to merely operate a mouse for hours, and pulls the brunet's arm down, as careful as he can be. His hand is lightly resting on the swell of Trott's bicep. He takes his hand away from the brunet's arm like he was snapped at by a dog. Doesn't want to end up lingeringly stroking the man's smooth skin. No. That would be Not Good.

Trott huffs in mild irritation as he waits for Ross to begin whatever he's decided to do. Ross, on the other hand, is observing the slouch of the man's body, whether he's showing preference for one side or the other. Yeah... Ross thinks the man's favouring his left, leaning further in that direction, which means the muscles there are tensed more in order to protect the injured one... Yes. Ross' very limited knowledge is swimming just at the edge of his grasp, but he thinks that might be it. And it was the left side of Trott's neck that seemed to be affected.

Ross lifts his cool hands to the tense muscles there, gently feeling along the lines and ridges of tendons and tissue until he feels a slight puffiness. He shifts his right hand to the right side, in order to try to compare the shape, the swelling, as best he can with the material of the polo-shirt in the way. Trott shudders minutely under his hands, but Ross is sure it's due more to the unexpected coolness of his fingers being suddenly placed on the right side of his neck than any fanciful belief of mutual feeling.

And yes, the left of his neck is slightly swollen. It's deep beneath the flesh, running up the side of the neck and down to the juncture between neck and shoulder, below his shirt's collar. Shit. He needs Trott to take his shirt off if this is going to work. He breathes in with as subtle a draw as he can, then out again in a sigh. Fuck.

He taps Trott's shoulder twice. "Mate?"

Trott doesn't even bother to speak, just hums low, shortly. Ross notices his hands are clenched, knuckles white. The pain? It can't be that bad right-

"Sunshine, what did you want?" 

Ross is not going to embarrass himself because of that damned nickname. He clears his throat, subtle as he can. He feels himself flushing as he asks. "I-uh. I need you to take your top off. So I can, y'know. Massage. You." Oh fuck that was in no way smooth. Like seriously how is Trott not going to know after that-

Trott chuckles deeply, moves hesitantly to remove it, wary of his neck. Ross has to help, halfway through, and he just watches in despair as the plane of Trott's back is revealed to him at close quarters, followed by his shoulders, and his neck. Ross can far more easily see the slight tip of the man's body in unconscious response to the trauma - the shadowed groove of his spine is curled left ever so slightly.

Ross reaches up again, this time dedicating himself to the task at hand, surprising himself with how easily he slips from his slight fixating. He works at Trott's neck first, gently, then building up the pressure, following the lines of the sinews as he works the knots out. All the brunet does is huff when there's a tiny bit of pain, but Ross is good at this. He increases the force in slow and dedicated increments. 

Trott begins to tip his head forward, stretching out his neck. Ross guesses it's good to do after sitting up for as long as they have, unmoving. Ross lets his fingers shift on instinct, takes in the long, graceful lines of Trott's exposed nape, the bumps of his vertebrae, the ends of his hair, until the brunet's neck feels as relaxed as he can make it. He progresses to the juncture, presses harder than he meant to. 

Trott groans, deep in his chest, and Ross hadn't realised how close they's got but damn, he felt it through his forearms and elbows where they're unwittingly bumping against the brunet's exposed skin. Ross stalls, flushing deeply in his cheeks, feeling a spark of heat pass through him at the sound, and of course, of course, Ross has done his job well, because Trott is able to crane his neck around with minimal wincing to see why Ross stopped. 

He sees how close they are, sees how Ross' cheeks are practically glowing, sees, doubtless, Ross' eyes dilated. Ross can't look away. Trott's biting those fucking lips with his straight teeth and his eyes are dark and way too piercing and all Ross wants to do is whimper, scramble away, hide somewhere and not come out again. He's mortified. Trott's not stupid. He is very much aware.

Like a dog, he breaks their eye contact, heart racing, tries to extricate himself from his perch on the sofa. Of course he's made incompetent by nerves, his limbs unresponsive. 

"Oh, Ross." It's barely breathed, so quiet. Ross looks up in confusion, unsure of what the tone heralds. Utter disappointment, disgust? Trott's face is frighteningly blank. But the taller man is entranced by those eyes like a cobra by flute music, and he can't look away. He feels fingertips brush accidentally up his chest as they move to hesitantly trace his cheek, like he's glass. Trott is twisting from the waist and if he were to break their intense gaze, Ross could trace all the lines of him, oh so lovingly. But the moment would break if he did, he's sure. If this is all he gets, he'd still be happy.

Trott tips his head to the side slightly, leans in slowly. Too slowly. Blissfully slowly. The paths of their vision are still locked, even as he feels the cautious press of full lips against his. Ross shivers as a frisson passes through him, and he leans in further, their kisses soft, lingering, but still undoubtedly chaste. It's not the right time for anything else, and anything else would feel wrong.

Trott pulls away, all too soon, and Ross snaps open his eyes, not remembering having closed them. The flare of panic in his chest subsides when he sees that it isn't distaste which is the cause, but because of the held twisting of the brunet's neck having twinged the muscle again. Trott looks back at him sheepishly. 

But Ross just smiles, small, pleased. He doesn't mind giving Trott another massage if they get to do that again.


End file.
